


darkest before dawn

by biblionerd07



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bruce Banner Feels, Bucky Barnes Feels, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Torture, Late Night Conversations, Nightmares, Steve Rogers Feels, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2014-10-28
Packaged: 2018-02-22 13:04:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2508875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biblionerd07/pseuds/biblionerd07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky never sleeps just before sunrise, and one early morning he finds he's not the only one awake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	darkest before dawn

**Author's Note:**

> This is like...seriously plotless. But the fact that there is no Bucky & Bruce tag made me sad, and also I love Bruce and I think he and Bucky would be good friends. So here's a conversation.

There's a saying, one of those things Bucky's heard old ladies say sagely in hushed voices, that 'it's always darkest before dawn.' Bucky doesn't know if that's scientifically literal or whatever, but in terms of his sleeping habits, it's true. The hour or two predawn are essentially impossible to sleep through. The nightmares won't quit, if he even manages to fall asleep through his mind racing through disasters—real and imagined—and multiple languages. He once woke up to his own voice conjugating Spanish verbs at 4 am. Steve still claims it didn't wake him up, and Bucky's still sure it's a lie, but Steve had smoothed away the worry by joking that maybe he'd be able to learn Spanish in his sleep. Bucky hadn't even been aware he _knows_ Spanish.

Despite popular belief, Bucky doesn't wake up screaming from his nightmares. He knows for a fact Steve actually wishes he would, because the reason he doesn't almost hurts Steve more than the reasons he has to do so—he doesn't wake up screaming because screaming is malfunction and malfunction is punishment. He wakes with every muscle in his body tense but his jaw clamped so tightly his teeth are starting to wear down from grinding; his breathing is sometimes so fast he gasps when he hears it; a few times he's heard himself making small, quiet whimpering sounds, but there are no screams.

He likes to go sit on the couch in those dark hours, both because he doesn't want to disturb Steve with his tossing and turning and because he doesn't like the unpleasantness of those predawn hours to sneak into their bed. Sometimes he wanders through the Tower, and on days Steve's own nightmares wake him they go to the gym and spar.

The sad fact of the fractured people he's friends with is Bucky is rarely alone in these early-morning prowlings. His most constant companion is Natasha, who never shows her insomnia the next day the way he does. Stark is also a frequent flier, sometimes because of sleeping problems and sometimes because he doesn't notice the shift from day to night. Bucky suspects Barton is awake more than the nights they spend together, but Bucky's not going to judge someone needing time and space alone to sort through their own head.

So one night—morning, technically, but whatever—when Bucky wakes, tense and terrified, it's business as usual. It's nothing new, it's nothing to be concerned about, really, it's just that it's 3 am and predawn he's done sleeping for the night.

He glances over to check that Steve's still sleeping. His breathing had hitched slightly a second ago, but he's still drooling against Bucky's shoulder. Bucky stares at him for a long time. A lot of people don't know Steve, though they think they do. Every person in the damn country thinks they know him. They know he's noble and good and kind, but they don't know he's infuriating and acerbic and an all around pain in the ass. They don't know that he drinks coffee even though caffeine only gives him about a five-minute buzz. They don't know that he has a framed photo of his mother on his nightstand, which Bucky loves but also kind of hates because it feels incredibly creepy to make time with a guy while a faded photo of his ma (who had always been rather terrifying when she disapproved of something, even as a woman barely five feet tall, he still remembers) stands watch. They don't know that even in his sleep Steve's got that adorable forehead wrinkle of worry or that the serum sure didn't fix his awful morning breath.

Bucky knows all these things. Bucky could recite a list of Steve's likes and dislikes and character traits and flaws and favorite foods and tell you what Steve will say to any given question. If someone were to ask Bucky his own favorite book, he'd have to pause, sift through the holes in his own brain, maybe even defer to Steve (who would refuse to answer, the little shit). But Bucky Barnes knows Steve Rogers by heart.

Their room is almost stiflingly warm, because neither of them like being cold and Bucky, especially, can't sleep if the temperature gets even to what Tony calls _normal human levels_. It's something they both pull the frozen-alive card on and no one presses the issue. Bucky stares at the ceiling and frowns at how unblemished it is. Their gross little hole-in-the-wall in Brooklyn—that was a ceiling a man could stare at through a sleepless night. There was a water stain that looked like a dog, with ears and everything, and texture issues from one spot to the next, and a few patches of what they'd agreed to decide wasn't blood. But this ceiling is white and smooth and perfect and Bucky scowls and scowling at the perfect ceiling is his cue to gently slide out from under Steve (it includes some stifled grunting on his part because he's a master assassin but goddamn, Steve's heavy and clings like an octopus in his sleep) and head to the communal floor.

Bucky isn't surprised that there's already someone there, but he's surprised that it's Dr. Banner. In months and months of early-morning prowls, Bucky's never once seen Banner. He's always just assumed that if Banner has nightmares he yogas them away or something.

“Hi,” Dr. Banner says softly, blinking at him. Bucky just nods because he doesn't much feel like talking, especially not to anyone who isn't Steve. “Tea?” He offers, pointing to a kettle on the fancy-pants stove Bucky won't admit to finding fascinating. He's not really from this era, sure, but he's been a nerd since his father made him help fix things around the house and he'd discovered he loved seeing how machines worked.

Bucky's going to shake his head, maybe dredge up some words to say no thanks, because tea's never really been his thing—when Steve thought he had to work to get into Peggy's good books they'd had a lot of tea lying around in camp, so it's not like anyone can claim Bucky's never tried it.

But before he can refuse, Banner gives him a gentle little smile and says, “It's very soothing, you know. Helps with sleeping. And I've found warm tea can be very comforting.”

Bucky hesitates. He _does_ need help with sleeping. It would be ludicrous to even attempt to deny that. And comfort? Yeah, it's not exactly something Bucky turns down these days. He likes his blankets soft and his baths with bubbles and his TV watching with cuddling.

“Thanks,” he manages to say, pulling out a Captain America mug. There are at least three in the cupboard of the communal kitchen. It's Tony's idea of a joke, but the joke's on him because Bucky will proudly wear Steve's colors on his chest or hold them in his hand.

They sit in silence for a while, Bucky staring into the depths of his tea, which is a weird shade of green but he trusts Banner not to poison him and he's certainly ingested worse. Bucky can't stop stealing little glances at Banner from the corner of his eye. He knows Banner's life hasn't been easy. Tragic back-story is some kind of prerequisite to the Avengers & Co, apparently. He thinks it's terrible such a kindhearted, gentle man has to deal with hurting people. Steve gives him really pointed looks when he says that. Bucky ignores it.

“Do you have nightmares?” The question slips out before Bucky realizes he's asking. He flushes. “You don't have to answer,” he amends quickly. Banner looks at him for a minute and then smiles sadly.

“It's sometimes easy to forget you're so young,” he says, looking at the countertop.

“I don't think I was ever actually young,” Bucky murmurs, a little bitterly. He started taking odd jobs when he was nine years old, learned about starvation from his neighbors and the razor-thin edge between life and death from his best friend. Bruce nods, still with that faraway sadness in his eyes.

“Yes,” he answers after a minute of silence. “I do have nightmares.” He doesn't elaborate and Bucky would never press that particular issue with anyone who isn't Steve. “Are yours getting any better?”

Bucky lets a snort be his only reply. It's been nearly eight months since he came back to Steve after running around Europe, torching HYDRA bases and trying to outrun his memories, and six since he'd been allowed out of a secure facility. He and Steve moved into Stark Tower two months ago after admitting a little extra security, physically and emotionally, might not be a bad thing.

But no, his nightmares are not getting better.

“Every night?” Banner asks. Bucky can only nod, a jerky movement with his head because his eyes are getting hot like he's going to cry if he tries to talk. He's only ever let Steve see that and he's not going to change that now. They're quiet again and Bucky is relieved Banner doesn't offer any platitudes. None of the Avengers are big on cliched _I'm so sorry_ s or the like.

Bucky takes a deep breath through his nose and clenches his eyes shut tight until he can swallow down the lump in his throat. “I thought Steve would be enough to get rid of them. Like if I could feel him there, I'd be okay.”

“I'm sure he wishes that were so.”

“I know he does. But that was too much to put on one person.” Bucky runs his finger over the shield on the mug. “And he blames himself for not being enough. 'Cause he's an idiot. Everybody calls him a superhero but he's still just one guy, you know?”

“I know,” Bruce says softly, and Bucky thinks he really does. “He's never been afraid of me, you know. Cautious, especially when we were in a little ship up in the air. But he sees me as Bruce Banner first, Hulk second.”

“Well, that's Stevie.” Bucky doesn't fight the fondness that creeps into his voice. “Only thing he cares about is whether a person is good or not. And don't even try to convince him someone's not good if he decides they are. He's got his own standards.” His eyes slide out of focus. “'S why he won't let me go,” he admits quietly. “I could—Jesus, I could kill him in the middle of the night. Can't talk half the time, can't wash my own damn hair if it's a really bad day 'cause he's worried I'll pick up a razor. I don't deserve even a second of his time. Never have.”

Dr. Banner gives him a measured look. “I don't really believe that,” he says. “I don't believe you don't deserve him. And I don't believe you're not good, if that's where that little segue came from.” It almost sends Bucky reeling. These are the kinds of things Steve has said over and over, shouted in Bucky's face or whispered into his hair, but for some reason hearing it from someone else is different.

“I...” Bucky trails off, no idea what he'd thought he was going to say, anyway. Bruce smiles at him.

“Steve is really different with you here,” he points out. “Even with everything, he's happier with you here. He jokes and laughs. I had no idea he was so sassy until you got here.” That makes Bucky snort. It had taken him months to figure out why everyone was surprised to hear Steve being snarky or swearing. “And he looks at you like you hung the moon.”

“Well, I told him I did,” Bucky admits, and he even laughs a little. “When we were, I don't know, seven? I was seven and he was six. Said I was actually from a different planet and I'd set the moon right where it is so he could look out his window and see it without leaving his bed, a special get-well present for all the times he was sick before I met him in person.”

Banner laughs with him. “Did he believe you?”

“He says he didn't and acted like he did to make me feel good about myself, but I know when he's lying.”

They drink their tea quietly for a little while before the itch comes back under Bucky's skin and he suddenly feels a deep exhaustion in his bones. He's set upon by a bone-crushingly strong desire to crawl back under Steve's arm and close his eyes, even if he can't sleep, to rest his head on Steve's shoulder. He feels melancholy and lonely and it's ridiculous because Steve knows every single thing about Bucky and Steve's still not going anywhere.

Bucky puts his mug in the dishwasher that he and Steve sometimes still marvel at—not because they don't understand how it works but because it makes things so much _easier_ and how many times had Bucky, up to his elbows in hot, soapy water, moaned that they needed a machine to do this?—and nods at Banner.

But before he leaves, he catches a little flash in Banner's eyes that he recognizes. It's that same loneliness, that melancholy, that itch under the skin, and Bucky hurts a little for him because Bucky has Steve but as far as he knows Banner doesn't have anyone to hold him in the middle of a nightmare and shield him from the predawn. He has his friends and teammates and he and Tony are close, but he doesn't have a Steve. Bucky realizes with a pang of pride and pity that _no one_ else has a Steve because Steve is one-of-a-kind and he's all Bucky's. Bucky vaguely remembers hearing about a woman in Bruce's past, a wife maybe? Whoever she is, she's not here now, and Bucky feels the urge to hug Banner. It's not a feeling he's very used to in this century.

“Dr. Banner?” He pauses before leaving the room. “For what it's worth, I, um...” He sighs a little, because he doesn't know how to do this anymore. Steve's assured him more than once he used to be quite the charmer, and could at least string two sentences together without stuttering. “I agree with Steve. You're good.”

Bucky doesn't wait for a response, uncomfortable enough with just getting it out. He takes the elevator instead of the stairs like he usually does, because he wants to be okay and he wants to get back to Steve. He feels a little stab of claustrophobia but JARVIS cheerfully updates him on which floors they're passing and the weather report for the day. Anytime Bucky gets in the elevator alone, JARVIS talks to him the whole time.

He gets back to their floor and sneaks into their room and there's Steve, forehead all wrinkled, one hand still stretched across the bed where Bucky's supposed to be. Bucky knows he isn't going to sleep, not in this cold half-light, but he slips under the covers and under Steve's arm and Steve immediately sticks his nose into Bucky's hair and Bucky burrows his face into Steve's neck. If he can just focus on Steve's breathing, he can make it to daybreak.


End file.
